


The Clairvoyant

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Story: A Case of Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: 2006 - Sherlock is working as a fortune teller (how else would people pay him to deduce them?) in a run down English coastal resort where Army Medic Capt John Watson is spending his last few days of freedom before deployment...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 94





	1. The Great Nostradamo

**Author's Note:**

> Needed to do something creative with my days in lock down, found this prompt on a general fiction site, not necessarily in character but I wanted an idea to play with

The hunch of the shoulders was something of a giveaway, as were the faintly pink rimmed eyes and the callouses on the forefinger of the right hand but it was the tie that clinched it.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing.”

They never do, thought the clairvoyant, wordlessly indicating the list of charges on the wall. The young man reluctantly reached for his wallet, crossing the palm, not with silver but with a note, and sat down.

It was an unremarkable tie, probably bought by the wearer’s mother in an attempt to smarten the boy up for his first day at work. The tie had apparently been worn five days a week for at least two years and now sported a number of stains, Red Bull, marinara and chilli sauce amongst others, from take-aways eaten distractedly while still at his desk using his left, non-dominant hand, while the right remained firmly attached to the computer mouse and his eyes never left the screen.

Computer programmer then, or rather, software engineer.

Twenty-three, two years out of university, not a tourist so obviously working for the IT company situated on the bypass, a very small cog in a mediocre wheel. He was young, he should get out while he could. The clairvoyant made a show of consulting his crystal ball.

“I’m getting the word application…”

******

  
After the software engineer had left to hand in his notice on route to San Francisco or possibly Swindon, (he had automatically deleted the rest of the consultation the moment the door to the cabin had closed) Sherlock began to count his day’s takings. It was a quarter past six, he generally shut up shop about seven, around the time when the promenade began to get rowdy as the younger holidaymakers, set up after a day spent drinking for a night on the town and the inevitable clash with the locals. Sherlock had no desire to be caught in the crossfire, relieved of his hard-earned cash or worse. The place the tourists knew with its sandy beaches, sparkling sea and picturesque pier somewhat lost its charm once dusk fell.

It was a rum way to earn a living, but it suited him better than he might have expected. True the punters were the worst kind of morons with their banal enquiries, the tedious triumvirate of love, money and death. _Will I find a partner? Will I be rich? Is this lump serious?_ He could predict 99% of their questions the moment they opened the door, but, Sherlock acknowledged the 1% did spark his interest and in what other work would he have people pay to have him deduce them?

The fortune telling side of things came naturally enough, a few well-placed deductions seemed to do the trick, and the average enquiry barely stretched his capacity. It was conveying the message that took the effort, requiring a level of interpersonal ability that had always eluded Sherlock. However, after his initial consultations had ended either in tears, threats or even, on one memorable occasion, a narrowly ducked left hook, Sherlock had developed a formula whereby he thought one thing and said the opposite… it seemed to work, certainly the sittings now seemed less inclined to end in hysterics.

Sherlock was plying this unusual trade from a cabin on the sea front at Wilvercombe, one of those anonymous resorts dotted along the south coast of England that had once enjoyed a high level of popularity amongst the British middle classes but had sunk into irreversible decline with coming of the package holiday. The cabin’s regular clairvoyant, the original _Great Nostradamo_ aka Terry Kirk, an acquaintance of Sherlock was presently detained at her majesty’s pleasure. The fact he was detained for six months rather than six years was entirely due to Sherlock providing Terry’s defence counsel with grounds for a plea bargain which had resulted in a more lenient sentence.

Terry, keen to show his appreciation while at the same time not wanting to relinquish any of his business to his rival on Wilvercombe High Street, had suggested that Sherlock take over his pitch for the summer season. Sherlock, between jobs, between flats and unable to afford one without the other, sick of his brother’s interference and reluctant to pay the price of asking his parents for help, had grasped the opportunity to get out of London and live life for a while below the fraternal radar.

The cabin the _Great Nostradamo_ operated from had only the most basic facilities, a bunk, the smallest of bathrooms and an even tinier kitchen but as Sherlock was not much disposed to eating or sleeping he didn’t mind; the shower functioned and that was all that mattered. Once he had got the hang of not offending his customers to the extent they demanded a refund Sherlock found he made enough to cover his day to day expenses and he had been pleasantly surprised at what very reasonably priced chemical benefits could be obtained in the average English seaside resort, particularly those where there was little or nothing else to do for six months of the year.

******

He was wrestling the shutter in place, when the three men entered. Sherlock quickly appraised them, deducing from their clothes, hair and general demeanour they were presently serving in the armed forces rather than just out of prison. Even so Sherlock was not taking any chances, he never liked to be outnumbered.

“Only one at a time.” He said in his most commanding voice pointing at the notice, the speed with which they acquiesced confirmed how used they were to taking orders, quickly and as if by ESP deciding who would leave.

The man who remained was the man who had come in first, radiating confidence and authority, the way his companions had deferred to him revealed him as a born leader but not a regular soldier – Medic, Officer class.

Sherlock quickly deduced the rest and rattled off his findings without revealing their sources. Two years nursing in Australia (small tattoo) before back packing in Malaysia (collection of leather wrist braids). This man would easily make a success of army life, resilient and with a strong sense of duty of care for his patients, compassionate, kind and down to earth. Sherlock reassured him that his girlfriend would be true while he was away and snuck in the deduction that his boyfriend would be too for good measure. Bill, the name the man had given Sherlock, burst out laughing and called to his companions now waiting outside “Hey, this guy’s good”

The consultation finished, Bill went out and the youngest of the men came in, paid his fee and gave his name as Chris. A bigger contrast to Bill, Sherlock could not have wished for. Chris looked like a soldier (hair cut with military precision even when on leave), he stood like a soldier too, (always on parade), but Sherlock knew that this man, in his heart was not one.

There was the signet ring, worn on the middle finger of the right hand, made for a larger man, its engraving partially obscured through age but still clear to Sherlock as the regimental crest of the now defunct 8th Northumberland Fusilier Battalion. The man caught his gaze and twisted the ring nervously, even on his middle finger it was slightly loose. These were big boots Chris was having to fill. Not his father, Sherlock deduced but an older man, genetically a generation removed, grandfather then, grandfather the war hero.

He might make it as a soldier, he had ability and strong motivation, that might be enough, but as Sherlock informed Chris of his childhood dreams of owning a second-hand bookshop, and that he would make his mother proud whatever he did, although he added gently.

“Be your own man… follow your heart, choose your own path. Go if you want to go, but for your own sake, not anyone else.”

Chris looked close to tears and Sherlock, alarmed, drew the consultation swiftly to a close.

 _Two down and one to go_ Sherlock thought as he heard the voices of Bill and Chris outside calling their companion.

The third man, also a soldier and a medic, Sherlock presumed that much, had obviously used the interval to wander down the promenade towards the pier and seemed reluctant to return, resulting in his friends becoming that more determined to make him, shouting his name in the street and threatening to tell someone called Lucy that he’d ‘chickened out’.

Finally, just as Sherlock was about to go back to shutting up, the shouting stopped and the third man entered, or rather was shoved into the cabin, accompanied by cat calls from his friends. His face was mutinous.

A short angry man, he noted at once, sturdy, compact rather than fat, even so the newcomer filled the room… but before Sherlock could take a name or give his usual client spiel, before he could even name his fee… words burst from him.

“Don’t go to Afghanistan.”

“What?”

Sherlock blinked, opened his mouth, blinked again, closed it and repeated the sequence twice more.

“What?” The man (client? whatever?) was staring fiercely at Sherlock, “What the hell is that about?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer, he didn’t know. He’d thought he had nailed the whole fortune telling malarkey. He had a system… deduce and display, regale and reveal, ka-ching, next! He had never made a comment that hadn’t the sound base of observation cross referenced against the huge amount of data he had stored in his memory banks. He dealt in cold hard facts not idle suppositions…

He could tell the man was angry with him. Quite rightly, Sherlock was angry with himself.

“Go on.” The soldier said again taking a step forward, “Go on, tell me, what game are you playing?”

Sherlock instinctively took a step back, unable to speak except to repeat, “Don’t go to Afghanistan.”

The man took another step forward and clenched his fists, “What is this? Some kind of lefty wind up? Telling a man to shirk his duty?”

Sherlock braced himself for the blow, but it never came. Instead the man turned and with the parting shot of “Well fuck you…” strode out of the cabin slamming the door behind him. The whole cabin, not the most robust of buildings, shook but Sherlock paid no attention. Outside he heard the words “fucking charlatan” and the sound of voices fading as the three men departed down the street.

Sherlock slowly gathered his wits, locked the door and turned the sign to closed. He went through to the back, shed the cloak he wore as The Great Nostradamo, peeled off the wig and the goatee beard and lay down on the bunk, taking up his preferred thinking position.

_“What had just happened?”_


	2. Mary Sutherland

_A pilot judging by his thumb, though not a good one, judging by the cut of his suit._

Sherlock had spent a restless evening and a sleepless night prowling the corridor of his mind palace searching for examples of the incident with the third soldier, but he had come away empty handed. He was convinced he had never made a deduction without observed data to corroborate it. Frankly, it unnerved him. The scientist in him concluded that the only solution was a control experiment to see if it happened again.

The first client of the day seemed a suitable subject. Medium height and medium build, a middle child if ever there was one. _Passive aggressive parent, probably mother; one older sibling (male, a bully), one younger (female, fiercely competitive), father… father recently deceased. Oh!_

“I don’t do seances, I don’t contact the dead.”

The pilot looked askance, “I don’t want you to.”

Sherlock shrugged, “You’re not here to contact your father?”

This was received with a grimace, “What a horrible thought, though good guess that my father died recently. However, I am not here to find out what my father thought of me, I know that already.”

 _Bitter_ Sherlock thought _Bitter and sad,_ although what he said was, “I never guess.”

Money changed hands and the consultation commenced. Sherlock began by deducing the pilot’s obsession with flying and the quaint probability that he had once wanted to be an aeroplane, (Sherlock refrained from mockery, after all at the same age he had wanted to be a pirate). Sherlock held the man’s hand palm upward and continued, claiming to find the long hours of study, the financial hardship, the lack of support from his parents, the ridicule of his siblings all written there, whereas in reality he had merely taken the opportunity to examine more closely the wear and tear on the pilot’s cuffs.

“Six goes to get your CPL” Sherlock immediately noticed the client start to speak but then change his mind. “Of course, it was in fact seven. Really? And you’re still certain you’re cut out to be a pilot?”

The young man replied fervently, “Flying is the perfect job and I won’t settle for a life where I don’t get to do it.”

Sherlock acknowledge the comment with a subtle nod, _determined enough to make it_ , and turned his attention back to the man’s palm.

“I see a future in the skies. Aim low, sell yourself cheap, look for a company where they need you more than you need them, it will pay off in the end.”

******

The day wore on bringing a steady stream of holiday makers ready to consult the Great Nostradamo – Should I leave my husband? ( _Yes, that bruise is too high for a doorknob_ ), Should I invest in Northern Rock? ( _No,_ _whatever that is, no_ ), Am I adopted? ( _If you’re even thinking that you ought to check)._

Summer holidays gave people space to contemplate the future and dwell on the past, and while Sherlock might complain to himself of the trivial nature of their questions he was mostly satisfied with the accuracy of his deductions. But between readings and occasionally during, Sherlock’s mind wandered to the soldier of the evening before. He silently berated himself, while listing all the things he should have deduced about the man… _that he had been a useful fly-half… that he was an excellent marksman… that he had had lovers on three continents…_ There must have been something, a subconscious deduction that had prompted the thought of Afghanistan, but what it had been still eluded him.

Sherlock emerged from another of these reveries to the awareness that a woman had for some minutes been walking up to the door of the cabin and away from it again. Sherlock sighed, oscillation upon the pavement always meant an affaire de coeur. The woman was obviously after a reading but was torn between desperation and scepticism. Finally, after another round of walking to and fro, the door swung open and the woman entered.

On first sight Sherlock would have put her at mid to late forties but as she came close enough to enable him to see her neck, he knocked twenty years off her age. Wearing a dowdy brown pinafore, American tan tights and a shapeless knitted cardigan on top, despite the hot weather, she was the kind of woman his grandmother would have described as ‘well upholstered’.

The clothes were old-fashioned rather than vintage _(only child, elderly parents… no, just the father, mother twenty possibly even thirty years his junior, sees the daughter as a rival. Sheltered upbringing home educated and now home working… Father deceased within the last five years)._ Cocooned, that was it, she made him think of a chrysalis, but one with a moth rather than a butterfly inside.

"Do you not find," Sherlock enquired, "that being so short sighted it is a struggle to do so much typing?"

"I am a touch typist,” the young woman replied, “seventy-five words a minute, I don’t need to see the keys.” Then she suddenly looked up, “Oh, you’ve started, you’ve started the reading and I haven’t even paid you, or told you why I am here.”

Sherlock said, “You don’t strike me as the kind of person to cheat me of my fee. Please do sit down, tell me your name and what has brought you all the way from London to Wilvercombe today, because it is certainly not the sea air."

The woman sat down heavily on the client’s chair, it rocked slightly before righting itself.

"My name is Mary Sutherland, and you are correct I have come from London today.”

"What made you leave in such a hurry?" Sherlock asked. 

Miss Sutherland eyed Sherlock suspiciously, “Yes, I did fly out of the house, I was so angry with Mr Windibank, he would not go to the police, he wouldn’t accompany me here and in the end he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done. It made me so mad I just stuffed some things into a bag, got a taxi to Waterloo and the first train to Wilvercombe.” She said this in a rush and Sherlock realised she was struck by her own daring.

 _Who might Mr Windibank be?_ Sherlock wondered _A person of significance in Miss Sutherland’s life but not one she is on friendly terms with. Resident in the household by the sounds of it but she would hardly expect a lodger to come to her aid. A relative… ah yes, a stepfather, the mother has remarried, and no doubt having been married so long to an older man, she will have gone for a much younger one this time._

"Yes, Mr Windibank is my stepfather,” Mary replied to Sherlock’s questions now without sounding surprised. “I cannot bring myself to call him father, as he is only five years and two months older than myself."

“And you disapprove of him.”

“I have nothing against him, but seeing that you seem to know already I admit I wasn't best pleased, when mother married again so soon after father's death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. We all lived together in a house on the Tottenham Court Road, but when Aunty died two years ago we moved to her house in Lyon Place, as mother and Mr Windibank said it was a far superior address and it was more convenient for me for my work.

“But you are distracting me… I came to Wilvercombe in search of my fiancé and had hoped to find him here, but…” She broke off with a sob and took a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

“Fiancé?” Sherlock could not contain his surprise and glanced at the woman’s hands; this was a deduction he had missed.

Mary self-consciously covered her ringless left hand with the right. “My fiancé, Ian Moody, we were due to be married a week ago, by special licence. He made all the arrangements but when I arrived at the registrar’s office he wasn’t there. I waited and waited for hours, long after we had missed our appointment, mother got quite cross and said he had jilted me, but I cannot believe her. I know something has happened to him.”

“You seem very trusting of a man you have not known long. What makes you so certain he has not simply,” Sherlock thought for a moment, “chickened out?”

“I may not have known him very long, I won’t ask how you know that… but I knew from the first time we corresponded that Ian was a good, kind person and more than that he was my soulmate, we were destined to be together and besides…” Here Mary lowered her voice and became conspiratorial, “he contacted me on the morning of the wedding and implored me to swear that I would always be true to him; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was promised to him, and that he would claim his promise sooner or later. It seemed a strange thing for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since makes me think he had a premonition that something would happen to prevent our marriage.”

Sherlock thought the mother’s conclusion was undoubtedly the correct one, but the daughter was in no mind to accept it. “If this all happened in London,” he asked, “what brought you to Wilvercombe? Surely it would make more sense to seek your fiancé at his home, or place of work in the city?”

“Ian grew up in a Children’s Home, he has no family. Every year the home used to bring the children on holiday here. He spoke of the place with such fondness and I thought perhaps if he was distressed or in trouble he would come here, and that’s where I would find him. I thought it was just a sleepy village but it is a big town, with so many hotels that I don’t know where to begin to look. Then I saw your cabin and it was like a sign that I should ask you for help.”

Sherlock filed the fact that Miss Sutherland had circumvented his question, she was firmly in denial.

“Miss Sutherland, I cannot help you find your fiancé, that is a concern for the police, and I am afraid that unless they suspect some crime has taken place, they are unlikely to take the matter very seriously. All I can advise you is to try to let Ian Moody vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

Mary was quite for a few minutes, as she appeared to process Sherlock’s words, then she looked up and spoke defiantly.

“I don’t believe you; I know that Ian is here, I can feel it and I will find him. You are wrong Mr Nostradamo, quite, quite wrong.” She opened her bag, took a note from her purse, threw it at the clairvoyant and turned and left.

Sherlock sighed, two clients slamming the door on departure in two days and he had thought he was getting better at this. He wondered if he should have asked to see the bundle of letters he had glimpsed in Miss Sutherland’s handbag, but he got no further with this thought as at that moment a large man, who owned too many dogs, entered the cabin.

 _A Doberman, a Rottweiler, a Pit Bull and a German Shepherd_ Sherlock catalogued the dog hair _and still feels inadequate… this was going to be tricky_.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully but thankfully with no more broken hearts. Sherlock packed up at his usual time and listening to his stomach for once, concluded that he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days and could probably do with some food.

Another attraction of the seaside location was the number of excellent chip shops along the front that allowed Sherlock to partake of his favourite meal with ease. He had already been able to perform a small service to the owner of the best of them and as a result was soon in possession of a large portion of cod and chips with the compliments of the chef. He retired to a convenient bench and sat down in the evening sunshine to enjoy his meal while indulging in another favourite pastime, people watching.

The seagulls were a nuisance though and Sherlock, who had soon had enough of defending his chips from the birds, began to think about returning to the cabin. It was in the evenings that he missed London most, spending the nights walking its streets, learning the city by heart. This reflection turned his thoughts again to Mary Sutherland; the only Lyon Place he knew of was just off Berkley Square, but it seemed unlikely that the family would occupy such a desirable address, not on their collective income.

He was sidetracked from pursuing this line of thought when he spotted the three soldiers from the day before, walking along the promenade and disappearing into a Pool Hall on the other side of the street. Sherlock dithered for a moment, then threw what was left of his chips (to the delight of the seagulls) into the nearest bin and set off to follow them.

Sherlock reasoned that it was unlikely they would recognise him as the Great Nostradamo but he didn’t want to take any chances so waited outside for fifteen minutes before going in. He went straight to the bar and bought himself a beer before settling at one of the slot machines conveniently placed to keep the pool table, where two of the soldiers were playing a game while the older, shorter one stood watching them, well in his line of vision.

Turning his days’ takings into coins Sherlock played the slots for the best part of an hour while occasionally taking a sip of his beer and all the time keeping a close eye on the soldiers. It was mainly Bill and Chris who played, their friend preferring to watch, nursing his own drink and commentating on the players performance. _Not a big drinker then, not surprising considering the way his brother’s drinking skated the thin ice of full-blown alcoholism…_ Sherlock was relieved to find his deductions were back to the basis of observational data with no random reference to foreign war zones.

Having beaten the machine to the jackpot twice, Sherlock became aware of the increasingly hostile stare of the Pool Hall owner on him and, deciding there was nothing to be learnt from the soldiers that was worth risking an altercation for, Sherlock gathered up his winnings and left.


	3. Ian B Moody

In the tradition of a British Summer the next day brought rain. Sherlock lay on his bunk listening to it falling both inside and out, the cabin was not entirely watertight. When he had first begun his season as The Great Nostradamo, Sherlock had assumed that wet days would be quiet ones, however the cabin lay on the promenade, close to the amusement arcades and the bowling alley and on a direct route from the bed and breakfasts to the pier, so he was kept busy.

******

“I’m getting chest pains.”

Sherlock’s first client of the morning was an overweight man of medium height with an unhealthy colour and a wheezy cough.

“Then why have you come to see me and not a doctor.”

“I don’t trust doctors.”

Resigned, Sherlock made a show of examining the man’s palm.

_Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy…_

“I am sorry to inform you that you are going to die.”

“What? When? Is it my heart?”

“We are all going to die sooner or later, in your case it will be sooner because you won’t see a doctor. If you want to avoid dying for as long as possible, I suggest you make an appointment for the moment you get home.” Sherlock heard a noise and looked up, “Although, as it happens you are in luck. Here comes a doctor now.”

The door of the cabin had cracked open and Sherlock had caught a glimpse of the angry soldier from two days before. Sherlock hoped he had not come to start a fight.

“Come in Doctor, and advise this man to seek professional help.”

The soldier ventured further into the cabin, acknowledging Sherlock with a nod. He gave the man a quick appraising look, then glanced back at Sherlock before turning to address the client.

“I’m not a GP but I don’t like the sound of your breathing, I would see your own doctor as soon as you can.”

“No time like the present,” Sherlock said, standing up and indicating that the consultation was at an end with a wave of his hand, “Off you pop”

The man grabbed his coat, and his newspaper and made for the door as quickly as he could, glancing at Sherlock’s visitor with a look of terror, although if that was due to his diagnosis or his profession, Sherlock was undecided.

******

Alone with the soldier, Sherlock assessed the situation, and concluded that the anger that had been demonstrated before had dissipated into curiosity. That he could handle. He invited the man to take a seat before sitting again himself.

“Ok, you have questions.”

It was a statement, but the soldier took it as an invitation.

“Did you follow us last night, is that how you operate? Spying on visitors to get the gen on them in case they come to see you.”

Sherlock thought that idea had possibilities, until he calculated just how many tourists Wilvercombe hosted in the summer.

“I know how these scams work, it is all based on tells and lucky guesses…”

“I never guess,” Sherlock replied automatically. The soldier ignored him and carried on.

“I had the feeling I was being watched, it took me a while to work out who you were, but then I had long enough you must have been there over an hour. I told Chris and Bill; they couldn’t understand why I was so mad at you. They thought it was a laugh, just the usual stuff about family, and work, girlfriends and travel, none of this blurting out warnings and then standing there gawping like a fish for them.

“I checked, you didn’t say anything to the others about where we’re off to and they never said anything to you. It’s unofficial until we get there anyway. Even if you guessed we were due for deployment, it could have been Iraq, or Sierra Leone or even Bosnia. So, what made you say Afghanistan and why did you tell me not to go there? Tell me! What did you see?”

Sherlock held out his hands in an empty gesture.

“Nothing…I saw nothing.”

Sherlock was aware that the soldier’s temper was rising again but the tension was broken by the door opening. Sherlock turned ready to tell who ever it was to go away and was only briefly stopped in his tracks when he recognised the intruder.

“Oh, it’s you... Go away, I’m busy.”

It was clear that Miss Mary Sutherland’s bravado had deserted in the hours since her first visit to The Great Nostradamo. Having neither coat or umbrella she had been unable to avoid the effects of the rain, her hair hung limply around her face which was red and blotchy with cold, she was clutching her handbag to her chest and as she ventured further into the cabin, it was apparent she was limping.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sherlock was personally affronted at her interruption of his conversation with the intriguing doctor and was about to tell her again to go away, but he had reckoned without the chivalry of his companion.

“You’re soaked, come and sit down,” he told her turning to Sherlock, “Do you have any towels?”

With bad grace, Sherlock went into the back room and fetched a towel.

“Perhaps a hot drink?” The soldier gave an officer’s glare in Sherlock’s direction. Reduced to a servant in his own home Sherlock thought irrationally but went to put the kettle on and set about making tea from his meagre supplies.

When he returned Mary Sutherland was filling in the doctor with the story of her lost love and her previous visit to the fortune teller.

“… I went to every hotel along the front, asking if they had a visitor called Ian Moody, I had no idea how many hotels there were or just how long it would take to get to speak to someone in charge, but they either said they couldn’t tell me anything or they had never heard the name. In the end it was so late and everywhere was fully booked, I sat up all night at the bus station. Then this morning it was raining, and I started my search again along the promenade, everywhere was very crowded and people bumping into me and when I looked, I realised my purse had gone.

“I went to the police, they weren’t very helpful. They said did I know anyone in Wilvercombe and the only person I could think of was The Great Nostradamo, although I suppose that isn’t his real name.”

Sherlock unceremoniously plonked three mugs of tea down on the table. “There’s no milk.”

The soldier ignored him and urged Miss Sutherland to continue.

“You see, he knows things, he told me things about myself that he could only have known with the second sight. Things about Mother and Father, and the typing, and where I live and work.” At this juncture Mary turned her tear stained face to Sherlock, “You have to help me find my Ian, I have no one else to turn to.”

With that, she burst into loud sobbing. Tears were completely wasted on Sherlock, but he already knew that the soldier would never be able to resist a damsel in distress, and Sherlock was strangely reluctant to miss a chance of impressing him.

Sherlock sighed heavily, stood up and walked over to the door where he changed the sign to closed. He went back to the kitchenette and rummaged in the drawer until he found a notebook and a pencil which he handed to his companion.

“Miss Sutherland, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague…”

“John, Dr John Watson,” the soldier helpfully supplied.

“If I am to be of any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of your fiancé, I need complete disclosure. Begin with what I got right yesterday, and Dr Watson will make notes of any information you provide that might be pertinent to solving this conundrum.”

Miss Sutherland wiped her eyes again and brightened up considerably, “if you think it will help. Well you were correct in saying I am a typist, and home educated. My father is dead, he died five years ago, he was rather older than my mother, and quite set in his ways. He had a business on the Tottenham Court Road, and we lived over the shop, Mother was his secretary before she married and it was she who taught me to type. Daddy never got on with the new computers and although the staff in his office used them, he liked me to type his letters for him on my machine.

“After Daddy died, Mother took over the business with Mr Windibank, who was one of Daddy’s buyers, but I don’t think they ran it very well. Mother said that I would have to find myself a job and Aunty put me in touch with her neighbour, Hermione Etherege the novelist…” Here Mary paused, “surely you have heard of her?” She went on, gawping in wonder at their blank faces. “The author of ‘ _The Dangerous Debutant_ ’? ‘ _The Pauper Princess_ ’? ‘ _The Extravagant Earl_ ’ ‘ _The Amorous Archduke_ ’?... You must have heard of ‘ _The Captivating Countess_ ’, it ran to three reprints in the first month…”

Sherlock thought they all sounded completely nauseating but could see why they appealed to a woman such as Miss Mary Sutherland.

“Her secretary who had been with her for forty years had died and she was quite bereft. She has a very strict routine, she dictates into a recorder every morning between 9 o’clock and noon, I collect the tapes and type them up at home and take the pages back to her at half past four. Mrs Etheredge either accepts or amends them. If there are amendments, I carry those out the following morning.

“It is the most marvellous job, Mrs Etherege is fascinating, you know she has been married four times, including to twin brothers! When I first worked for her I would stay with Aunty during the week but then she died and left us the house, and Mother sold the shop, so now we all live there together; me, mother and Mr Windibank.”

Sherlock interrupted, “It is a house in Lyon Place?”

“Yes, a town house, one of the smaller ones, not like Mrs Etherege’s.”

“And what was your Aunt’s name?”

“Mrs Edna Flugrath, she wasn’t a real aunt, she was a cousin of sorts of my father, she was always very kind to me.”

“Go on.”

“After we all moved to Lyon Place, I began to feel down. I had always thought it my own special place but as soon as he moved in Mr Windibank began to lay down the law. Like I said to you yesterday I was not best pleased when Mother remarried eight months after Daddy died, it all seemed rather soon. I had no wish to stand in the way of her happiness but now it seemed she and Mr Windibank were determined to prevent mine. He never wanted me to go out, not even to see our old neighbours in the Tottenham Court Road, and he never wanted us to have visitors if he could help it. He would say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to Mrs Etherege, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.

“Mrs Etheredge suggested I put an advertisement in the personals of The Evening Standard, she was most insistent, I think she thought it would be good research if she ever had one of her heroines do the same. So, after a while I gave in and did, and that is how I found Ian, my soulmate.

“I knew from his first letter that we were meant for each other, we had so much in common. We had both lost our parents, well I still had Mother, but you know what I mean. We shared the same interests, the same beliefs, the same hobbies, we seemed to think alike on everything. He even had a typewriter, only he had a Remington and I had an Olivetti but apart from that we were completely simpatico.

"We wrote to each other every day and by the end of the month we were engaged. We agreed that a quiet legal ceremony would suit us both, I didn’t want to wait and neither did Ian so he said he would get a special licence. I told Mother and Mrs Etheredge, but I didn’t want Mr Windibank to object so I suggested a date when I knew he would be away… you know the rest.”

Sherlock had sat thoughtfully during that last speech watching the soldier, _John_ , making careful notes of what Miss Sutherland had said. The notes weren’t at all necessary, but it gave Sherlock a reason to keep him from leaving.

“There is something you haven’t told me,”he said now. “When you came to see me yesterday, I asked you why you had not sought your fiancé at his home or workplace, or with his family. You circumvented this question. I believe you had a good reason for this, and that is you do not know where he lives or work, or his family if he has one. In fact, I believe you have never even met him!”

Miss Sutherland bent her head, blushing to the roots of her hair. “It is true, we have never met face to face, but I see Ian in my dreams every night and I know him inside and out.”

“You were going to marry a man you had never met!” John exclaimed.

Miss Sutherland was immediately defiant, “lots of women all over the world marry complete strangers and are happy without knowing half as much about their husbands to be as I know about Ian. Why in ‘ _The Malevolent Marquis_ ’ the heroine is forced by her wicked uncle to marry the Marquis of Doncaster when she is in love with the penniless schoolteacher in the next village and that had a very happy ending” She faltered “Though perhaps that is not such a good example as the Marquis is killed in duel the night before the wedding and his heir turns out to be his cousin…”

“The penniless schoolmaster,” Sherlock’s voice only thinly disguised his contempt.

It was obvious that Miss Sutherland was unable to distinguish fact from fiction, an ideal candidate for the kind of hoax that had been played on her.

“You have the letters on you, perhaps I may see one?”

Miss Sutherland relaxed her grip on her handbag and took a letter from the bundle inside and reluctantly handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock studied the envelope and its contents for some time.

“That settles it.”

“You know what has become of Ian?”

“I have a theory. Miss Sutherland, this is what you are going to do. I am going to put you in a taxi to take you to the station and you are going to return to London. I will lend you the fare, you can repay me in due course. When you get home I want you to go at once to your typewriter and type ‘the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’, once in upper case and again in lower, plus a set of numerals and common punctuation. Put this paper in an envelope and send it guaranteed next day delivery to Dr John Watson care of…John?”

“The Sea View Hotel, Wilvercombe”

“Write that down for her… Now Miss Sutherland, I need to keep hold of this letter, may I do that?”

The woman hesitated.

“I promise you; you’ll get it back. Now no time to waste, the next train to London is in twenty minutes. Here,” Sherlock handed her a small bundle of notes, “this should be enough for the taxi and the train fare. Dr Watson perhaps you could escort Miss Sutherland to the taxi rank at the end of the street”

Sherlock almost pushed Miss Sutherland and Dr Watson out of the cabin and closed the door firmly behind them, fervently hoping that he would only see one of them again soon, and the right one. His prayers were answered not ten minutes later when Dr Watson returned.

“Well, she’s in a taxi. Do you honestly think you will see her and your money again?”

“I do, in fact I am banking on it. She is a fundamentally pure and honest woman, she would never cheat me, and would never believe that anyone could cheat her.”

“And you know that like you knew everything else about her, but you don’t have the gift.”

“Dr Watson, I don’t have the gift as you call it. What I do have is extraordinary powers of observation and memory which enables me to deduce facts about individuals from the information that is presented to me, even when the person involved doesn’t realise they are giving anything away.

“When Miss Sutherland came to see me yesterday, I garnered some information from her physical appearance. She had the imprints of glasses either side of the bridge of her nose but seem to manage well enough without them while walking so short sighted. She had black and red smudges on the tips of her fingers, the kind caused by changing an old fashioned typewriter ribbon, I’m sure she would usually to do this swiftly and cleanly but in her agitation yesterday she had been clumsy. And then there was her shoes…”

“Her shoes?”

“Although she was wearing shoes of the same style and colour, the right one was new, a couple of months old at most while the left was quite worn and probably only now used for pottering around the garden. In her haste to leave yesterday she put on odd shoes and didn’t notice. Something which both confirms her short sightedness and that she left in a hurry. Walking for long periods of time in mismatched shoes had caused her limp.

“Miss Sutherland’s speech patterns are of someone who generally mixes with people who were young in the 1950s and indicates she did not go to school. School friends or work colleagues would have influenced, even subconsciously the way she speaks, walks and dresses. Her unhappy home life is indicated by the way she refers to her relatives, Daddy and Aunty compared with Mother and Mr Windibank. Now you know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.

“The fact Miss Sutherland deflected my question about Mr Moody’s home and workplace indicated to me that she was ignorant of both and I began to suspect that her fiancé did not exist, a fact that was confirmed when I read the letter that purported to be from him. Here take a look at it yourself.”

John picked up the letter, and skimmed the contents, “typed, no address, sentimental gush all hearts and flowers, swearing undying devotion and asking to do the same... what I would have expected.”

“Miss Sutherland refers to her fiancé as Ian or Ian Moody if required to give his full name, but you will note that the signature, which is typed is IAN B MOODY. You are a great fan of crosswords are you not Dr Watson?”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that, but yes I do like a good crossword.”

“Anagrams too I believe. Perhaps you would like to try your hand at this one.” Sherlock took the notebook and pencil and quickly wrote Ian B Moody ?/??/??????

John picked up the notebook and pencil and wrote underneath ABDIMNOOY, then threw them both onto the table in disgust.

“Exactly” Sherlock agreed with John’s unspoken comment, “if whoever played this vile trick on Miss Sutherland hadn’t tried to be clever, they may have got away with it, or at least for a little longer.”

“Who was it do you think?”

“That’s what I mean to find out. Perhaps if you have nothing else on, you would care to assist?”


	4. Edna Flugrath (deceased)

John watched as the Great Nostromo, or rather Sherlock as he supposed he could call him, went about putting up the shutters and locking the door of the cabin, the sign already said closed. He disappeared into the back room and reappeared minus his cloak, false beard and moustache, ruffling his hair as he did so. John registered his approval; on the whole he preferred his clairvoyants clean shaven. He was struck by a thought.

“Shouldn’t you be working this afternoon?”

“One would hope the visitors to Wilvercombe could survive an afternoon without knowing they are going on a long journey,” Sherlock replied. “Right let’s be off. Perhaps you could kindly bring that notebook with you?”

They stepped out into the rain and set off down the Promenade towards the beach, John found himself trotting a little to keep up until the taller man realised and slowed his pace.

“Where are we going?” John asked once they were level.

“To see Fat Eddie.”

“Fat Eddie?”

“Yes, he runs the surf shop on Dune Road.”

“We’re going surfing?” John said in disbelief, it was hardly the weather and neither of them were appropriately dressed, but who knew what this mad creature would think of next.

Sherlock gave him a look which clearly said don’t be an idiot.

“Certainly not, in addition to the surfing business, Eddie runs a café I have discovered serves the finest cup of coffee in Wilvercombe. He is also the purveyor of all manner of comestibles essential to the surfing community, his hash brownies are superb…”

He glanced at the Doctor’s face and his expression caused Sherlock to add hastily, “so I am given to understand. I haven’t sampled them myself.”

Sherlock forbore from enlightening John further on which of Eddie’s wares he had sampled.

“So, we are walking down to the beach in the rain for tea and cake.”

“Not exclusively. In addition to the surfing supplies and the food, Eddie’s also operates as an internet café which is unlikely to be busy this time of the afternoon. Although you may not think it, it will take more than a few drops of rain to keep the surfer boys out of the water. The tea and cake are a bonus. This way,” he added veering off down a side street before stopping so abruptly John nearly ran into him. “Oh your friends”

John who had been listening to Sherlock’s ramblings while simultaneously amazed and wondering if he had unconsciously expressed his thoughts aloud earlier said with a start. “They’ve gone to the arcade” Then added tightly “We’re not joined at the hip”

Sherlock deduced there had been a slight falling out between the three men, possibly due to John’s aversion to spending the day surrounded by the temptations of gambling. He filed this for future reference and merely said, “their loss is my gain.”

They had reached the end of the alley way from the promenade which opened out onto a narrow tarmacked road between the sea wall and a handful of shops selling the usual requisites of a British seaside holiday – buckets, spades, ice-creams and umbrellas.

Eddie’s (officially named the Surf Shack) was sandwiched between two such establishments, Sherlock pushed the door and went in with John following closely behind. The front of the shop was filled with brightly coloured surfboards, wetsuits and other surfing paraphernalia. Behind this was another room with a handful of tables and chairs, a counter and a half a dozen substantial looking computers along one wall. As Sherlock had predicted the café wasn’t busy, and he and John seated themselves at two adjacent computers as the proprietor came over and greeted Sherlock as if he was an old friend.

Sherlock ordered a double expresso for himself and an Americano and a ham sandwich for John, (John had reached the stage where he took it for granted that Sherlock knew his preferences, naturally he was spot on and the coffee really was superb).

While Eddie had been fussing over them effusively, Sherlock had logged into a government website and then handed over to John with a flourish.

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything to do with Edna Flugrath, death, obituary, will, probate. Miss Sutherland said her father died five years ago at which point her Aunt was still alive so try 2002 onwards. You can search probate by name and year and view a copy online. We should commend Miss Sutherland on the unusual surname of her Aunt, it makes things considerably easier for us.”

Reflecting that this was not the way he had anticipated spending his holiday, and secretly pleased at Sherlock’s use of the word us, John set to work. Although he was not a natural when he came to computers and keyboards, he soon had some information for Sherlock.

“Mrs Flugrath died in May 2003 and probate was granted in January 2005, that’s over eighteen months later. Seems a long time,” John observed, thinking of the legal necessities after his own father’s death.

Sherlock agreed. “Which generally means one of two things, either the affaires of the deceased were particularly complicated, or the will was contested.”

John requested a copy of the will online, there was a fee and he absently drew out his wallet and paid with his own card, so they were soon reading the contents. The will had been drawn up in 2002 and apart from the usual clauses and items regarding funerial arrangements it revealed two things. Firstly, that Mrs Flugrath was a considerably wealthy woman with assets valued at just over two million pounds, mainly comprising the house in Lyon Place with the remainder in cash, stocks and shares. The second was that, aside from a couple of small bequests, Mrs Frugraph had left everything to her niece Mary Sutherland.

“Reasonable enough, the way Mary Sutherland described her Aunt implied they were close and she even lived with her during the week once she started working for Mrs Etherege. I got the impression that the Aunt had no children or even close relatives after Mary’s father died.”

While John had been talking, Sherlock had been busy on his own computer searching the name Mary Sutherland and various connections before turning to John with a look of triumph. “The will was contested by Miss Sutherland’s mother!”

Sherlock skimmed through the rest of the judgement, it had been an interesting case and he had discovered a write-up in a peer journal. Having absorbed the information, Sherlock turned again to John to fill him in.

“It seems that the bone of contention was the use of the word ‘niece’ as the descriptor of the beneficiary, sloppy work by the solicitor who drew up the will although he compensated for that later on. In fact, Edna Flugrath had no nieces merely two distant relatives one of whom was the daughter of a second cousin, and the other a second cousin by marriage. Our Mary Sutherland was named after her mother who was therefore also known as Mary Sutherland until her second marriage when she took her new husband’s name.

“Mary Sutherland senior, now Mrs Windibank, argued that ‘Aunty’ had always promised to take care of her after her husband, Thomas Sutherland, died and that she was the niece referred to in the will.

“Mrs Flugrath’s solicitor who had been responsible for the will and for the schoolboy error redeemed himself admirably by producing copies of all Mrs Flugrath’s previous wills at the hearing. According to this report Mrs Flugrath made a will in 1985, shortly after the death of her husband which left the bulk of her estate to her cousin Thomas Sutherland. This will was revised in October 2001, one would assume just after Thomas died as it left everything jointly to her cousin’s widow Mrs Thomas Sutherland, which is an old fashioned way of writing her name but helpful in this case, and to her niece, there’s that word again, Mary Sutherland.”

Sherlock paused; John suspected it was for dramatic effect but did not think any less of his new friend for that.

“What happened after that?”

“According to her solicitor Mrs Flugrath visited him on Tuesday 21st May 2002 at nine in the morning and insisted he draw up a new will immediately. It seems that she was an important and somewhat imperious client of the firm and not to be kept waiting. He drew up the will according to her instructions and she returned that afternoon at two-thirty to sign it.”

“And the new will is the one that was current at the time of her death?”

“The one that named her niece Mary Sutherland as the sole residual legatee.”

“It seems pretty definite.”

“Yes, according to the report there were a number of factors that taken together caused the judge to rule again the mother. Namely that the previous will had referred to Mary Sutherland senior as Mrs Thomas Sutherland and described her as Edna’s cousin’s widow was pretty damning, but I imagine this was the final irrefutable piece of evidence”

Sherlock swivel the monitor a little so that John could read the screen. It was a notice from The Times dated 21st May 2002, John read out loud.

“Windibanks – Sutherland – The marriage took place on Friday 17th May 2002, at Old Marylebone Town Hall, London, between Mr James Windibank of Westminster, London and Mrs Mary Sutherland (nee Temple) of Camden, London.

“So, Aunty opens up her morning paper, nearly chokes on her Weetabix and goes dashing off to her solicitor to change her will.”

“Exactly, and while it could have been argued this was an impulsive decision, Mrs Flugrath lived for another twelve months without taking the opportunity to revoke that will.”

“She was compos mentis?”

“According to both the solicitor and her GP she was as bright as a button right up to the day she died, of a massive stoke, at the age of 94.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, thinking about what they had discovered. Eddie brought them more coffee and only this interruption did John speak.

“Do you think she knows?”

Sherlock didn’t need to ask to whom John was referring. “I wouldn’t have thought so, she demonstrates an astonishing level of naivete, but I believe it is genuine.”

“So, she has no idea her mother and stepfather attempted to deprive her of a million pounds.”

“I’m not entirely sure she is even aware of the full extent of her inheritance, after all, when she was recounting her story earlier, she clearly said ‘Aunty died and left us the house’.”

They were silent again, then Sherlock suddenly announced “Moving on. You see what you can find out about the employer, Mrs Etherege, and I’ll look into the Windibanks.”

They turned back to their respective screens and started searching. John found Hermione Etherege quickly, in fact he was soon inundated with pages and pages of results. She appeared to be the most prolific creator of lurid historical romances, all purple prose and heaving bosoms, with names like _The Dashing Duke_ , and _The Courageous Commodore,_ the sort of book his mother had loved and his sister would have thrown on the fire. He found an article in Tatler where the author had described her working day which matched Mary Sutherland’s account of it almost exactly. He also found a hatchet piece from a disgruntled editor that described Mrs Etherege as temperamental, tyrannical and talentless, which he conceded was good alliteration if nothing else. It seemed that Hermione Etheredge was an impossible person to work with and found it very difficult to keep staff. He marvelled that Mary had manged to work for her for five years but then, on reflection, perhaps he wasn’t surprised. A quiet, submissive nature such as hers was probably the only one that would be acceptable to the harridan Mrs Etherege appeared to be.

John wondered how Sherlock was getting on and turned to look at his companion just as he turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and it was a moment before John could look away, the back of his neck feeling hot. He coughed to hide his confusion; he had been exposed to far too much romantic drivel just by reading Hermione Etherege’s blurbs. 

“What have you found?” He asked quickly.

Sherlock didn’t need asking twice. “I’ve spent a lot of time in London, Sutherland & Co. on the Tottenham Court Road is something of an institution, it has been there since the 1900s. I hadn’t realised that it had changed hands. Looking at the records from Companies House, Sutherland & Co. seemed to have been in decline even before Thomas died but this escalated after his death. He left the business to his wife, but it seems her heart wasn’t in it and although she married James Windibank who was a buyer for the firm, he also lacked the business acumen to make a go of the place. Added to that, they did not own the property only the lease, which was due for renewal in 2004 and the Windibanks did not have the wherewithal to cover it. It was most fortuitous that Old Aunt Edna died and they came into the house in Lyon Place. Mrs Windibank sold up, below the asking price for a quick sale and they all moved into Lyon Place where we can assume they live quite comfortably on Miss Sutherland’s money. She certainly seems to be the only one with any form of income.

“Added to this Mary Windibank got landed with costs after her unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the 2002 will, while James appears to have sailed very close to the wind financially for years.”

“Then Mary suddenly decides she wants a boyfriend and a home of her own, that must have given them a shock… enough to do something about it do you reckon?”

“I suspected the mother and stepfather immediately, what was missing was motive. I am now 99% certain that Mr and Mrs Windibank are behind the letters, I just need one final piece of the puzzle which I trust Mary will send to me tomorrow.”

“So, they have broken their daughter’s heart, and possibly put her off relationships for life just so they can live in her property and on her money for the rest of their naturals.”

“Succinctly put, Doctor.”

“Not a crime though is it.”

“Sadly, no. It was as cruel and selfish trick, by a pair of heartless scoundrels but not against the law, at present. Really,” he continued almost disconsolately, “If I am going to investigate anything, I’d rather it was a good murder or better still a serial killer.”

John looked askance at this and decided it might be a good idea to check the time, and his phone; the café was filling up with surfers, so it must be later than he thought. He found three messages from Bill, and one from Chris, talking about food, beer and pool in that order. He felt Sherlock studying him intently as he read his messages.

“Of course, it is time for you to join your friends and see if they have any money left after their day on the machines.”

John nodded standing up and stretching, before pulling on his coat and handing Sherlock the notebook he had brought from the cabin. “Well thank you, it’s been an interesting day. Not quite what I expected.”

Sherlock also stood up. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“I’ll bring the letter round to you as soon as it arrives, if it arrives” John added, he was still sceptical on this point.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, “I am not expecting to receive the letter from Miss Sutherland tomorrow. Even if she was able to type it as soon as she returned she returned home, which might not have been achievable under the circumstances, she would still have to get to a Post Office before five and to escape the watchful eyes of Mr and Mrs Windibank who will no doubt be even more paranoid about her activities after this escapade”

“Then I won’t see you tomorrow.”

Something in the Doctor’s voice, regret (?) made Sherlock lower his eyes. When he raised them again John was looking at him intently.

“What time do finish weaving your tangled web around the unsuspecting folk of Wilvercombe?”

“Seven” Sherlock answered indignantly, “I finish work at seven.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight then,” John responded with a smile, “don’t be late. You still owe me an explanation”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edna Flugrath was a real person, an actress in the Silent Movies she played Mary Sutherland in the 1921 short film of A Case of Identity. I needed an unusual name and hers seemed a good choice.


	5. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date or Not a Date?

_Twelve…_ Sherlock assessed from the assortment of hair on the woman’s skirt and a lingering aroma and reconsidered. _Thirteen! In a one bedroom flat! Still wonders why her son won’t bring his new wife to visit!_

Sherlock was not having a good day; in truth he was off his game and struggling to concentrate on the deductions. He had slept badly (for him) or rather he had been awake well into the night before falling asleep at the table around six. He had been awakened well past eleven, crabbed and cranky, by a customer trying the door. For two bits he would have chucked the whole thing and gone down to the beach in search of something to help him focus but even that seemed to require too much effort.

Sherlock realised that the woman was staring at him, while he continued to hold her hand limply in his own. He shook himself and returned his attention to the paying customer.

“I am sensing the presence in your life of someone with ailurophobia.”

“Allure phobia? What?”

“Ailurophobia, fear of cats.”

This did not go down well and, after another half a dozen deductions about the woman’s home life, she departed. Sherlock could hear her loudly complaining to her friend outside that the whole thing was preposterous and whoever had heard of anyone being afraid of cats.

The day wore on without improvement or variety to the extent Sherlock began to seriously to consider how much longer he could keep the job up and if perhaps there might be some way of getting the real Great Nostradamo paroled. It didn’t help that it seemed that every client was obsessed with relationships which were never Sherlock’s strong suit and so between and if he was honest, during consultations, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to Dr Watson. He had said he would pick him up at eight and he, Sherlock, wasn’t to be late. _Was it a date?_ Sherlock wasn’t sure. _It sounded like a date, but it also sounded like the words of a song, and if it was a date, how had he missed that deduction_.

“Will I ever find my soulmate?” _What if you already have?_

“Is it time for me to settle down?” _With someone you met on holiday, don’t be absurd!_

But then the doctor had also said Sherlock owed him an explanation _, so that made it a meeting, not a date._

“Will he come back?” _From where he’s going, who knows?_

Would his friends be there? _If yes, then definitely not a date, but might not be a date even if John was on his own._

“Why did he leave?” _Because you drive everyone away eventually_.

“Am I ever going to be happy?” _Why change the habit of a lifetime._

What was a date anyway? Something where two people who liked each other went out and fun. _But they’d had fun together yesterday, investigating Mary Sutherland’s case. Perhaps this was their second date._

_And what about the doctor’s girlfriend?_

**_Oh, for heaven’s sake!_ **

Sherlock gave up at half past six, locked the cabin door and put up the shutters, and went into the tiny bathroom to take a shower. _Date!_ He ran his hand thoughtfully over his face but decided against a shave. _Not a date!_ He dressed carefully in his best suit. _Date!_ Which he matched with an old grey shirt. _Not a date!_ He glanced at himself in the tiny bathroom mirror and decided on a shave after all. _Date!_ Shaved, he dressed again not in the grey shirt but in a favourite purple one. _Date!_

Damn that was two _dates_ in a row, he needed to get a grip.

******

When John arrived at the cabin, promptly at eight o’clock he found the clairvoyant waiting for him. That Sherlock was as tightly wound as a coiled spring he didn’t seem to notice, instead the doctor said rather self-consciously, “You look nice. I knew I wouldn’t need to say dress up.”

Sherlock had already noted that the doctor was wearing a shirt and tie, although his jacket was over shoulder in deference to the warm evening.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far. I asked the receptionist where the best place to eat in Wilvercombe, she said the restaurant of the Hotel Resplendent, so I’ve booked at table there.”

Sherlock locked the cabin behind them, and they set off on the short walk along the promenade to Wilvercombe’s landmark hotel.

_The Resplendent… Date!_

“Where are your friends tonight?”

“Gone to the casino.”

_There was that tight voice again, not keen on gambling, or rather too keen, cannot put himself in the way of temptation._

“It’s our last evening in Wilvercombe,” John continued, “we like to blow what’s left of our funds in different ways.”

_Expensive treat. Not a Date!_

Like much of Wilvercombe the Hotel Resplendent was past its heyday although it was bearing up better than most of the resort and the restaurant was still very grand, although not particularly busy. They were shown to their table by an officious waiter whose comment about Sherlock’s lack of tie was aborted by a whisper to the ear from the clairvoyant. He brought the menu and took their drinks order without further to-do.

Sherlock was pleased to see that the food was good but the portions not overlarge and began to relax. He generally despised small talk but found that John was easily the exception. He even managed to laugh at John’s story of the fight to the death on the dodgems he and his companions had indulged in earlier, in which John had emerged the victor and where they had all been subsequently banned for life from Wilvercombe’s funfair. He even managed to respond to John’s enquiries about his day, entertaining the doctor with descriptions of various clients.

“You could tell that just from the cat hair on her skirt… thirteen! No wonder the daughter in law has the heebie-jeebies.”

“Originally I thought it was twelve but there was a short haired and a long-haired tortoiseshell” Sherlock confessed to John’s amusement.

But John was more than just an appreciative audience, he was capable of insights of his own. “You see a lot, don’t you? Doesn’t it all get too much at times?”

Sherlock paused; no-one had ever asked him what it was like to be constantly bombarded with information. How it overwhelmed his senses at times to the extent he had to close down for hours just to catalogue and file everything away. How he had to delete great swathes of facts just to cope with the load. He looked at John again in a new light.

He replied when he could speak again, “Anyone can see what I see but I have trained myself join up the dots.”

“I don’t think I could do what you do.”

“A person with average intelligence and observational abilities should be able to develop the skill. Let me see,” Sherlock turned his head and did a quick reconnaissance of dining room, “what you make of them?”

Sherlock indicated the table opposite where a party of three, a pretty fair haired woman of around forty-five, a thick set sandy haired man in his late thirties and a sallow dark-haired youth of no more than twenty were enjoying a meal and what appeared to be rather stilted conversation. The woman was doing a sterling job in trying to keep the conversation going but as soon as she relaxed her efforts silence reigned.

John eyed the table from behind a strategically placed menu. “Mother, step-father and son?”

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. “Step-father?”

“Well the boy’s nothing like him.”

“Or her, for that matter.”

“They might be aunt, uncle and nephew… there is something… now I look again, the older two might be related.”

Their food arrived and the deductions were put on hold until John had finished, and Sherlock had eaten enough.

“Take a closer look at the woman,” Sherlock suggested bringing the conversation back to the occupants of the opposite table.

Providentially, at that moment, the woman in question put down her napkin and stood up, the younger of the two men instantly go to his feet, while the older one took his time but then also stood. The path woman took to the cloakrooms caused her to walk past John and Sherlock’s table and gave John the opportunity to see her more clearly.

“She’s older than she looks,” he whispered once the woman was out of earshot.

Sherlock nodded, “Good”

“Which might make the older man her son, and the boy her grandson.”

Sherlock inclined his head again, “It might.”

“But you don’t think so?”

Their observations were interrupted by the sudden sound of raised voices which caused the other diners to look round at the table Sherlock and John were already watching. While the noise abated as swiftly as it had started, it left an unmistakable air of tension between the two men which felt as if at any moment it might develop into a fight. Certainly, the waitstaff thought so as they hovered nearby.

The woman returned to the table, and the atmosphere settled down, with the other diners returning to their own topics of conversation. John and Sherlock’s own waiter arrived with the dessert menu. Despite having already eaten more than he would in a normal day, Sherlock could not resist the tiramisu.

“Ok then,” John challenged after their order had been taken. “Who do you think they are?”

“The older man is her son, the younger her fiancé.”

“Fiancé!” John had to bite back exclaiming the word at a volume the whole restaurant would hear, “what makes you so sure?”

Sherlock replied simply. “Her hands”

“Her hands?”

“She’s had work on her face, but her hands give away her true age, which I would estimate at sixty, there’s not much can be done to hands to disguise age. Also you may note the index finger on her right hand is long, practically the same length as the middle finger, it is an unusual characteristic, and the older man’s hand is the same, making it almost certain that they are genetically related.

“She is wearing a considerable amount of valuable jewellery, the pearls round her neck for instance are genuine, as are her rings including the square cut emerald and the diamond cluster on her right hand, however on the left there’s only a small diamond solitaire but significantly it is worn on her third finger.”

“Sentimental associations,” John contributed. “Perhaps her husband made his money after they married.”

“Good suggestion, wrong, but good nonetheless. It is far too modern in design.”

“The woman is the mother of the older man, a widow, she is used to having money and has a large disposable income. They’ve not been on good terms for years; he is something in the city by trade I would think but not successful. That’s a Paul Smith suit, but it is at least ten years old judging by the shine on the seat and the wear at the elbows, his shoes have seen better days too. Plus his appearance has all the tell-tale signs of overindulgence, I won’t bore you with them but I would say a taste for living beyond his means, which is why he’s arrived in Wilvercombe to come between Mummy and her Beau. He’s worried about his inheritance, with reason.”

John looked at the younger man, “he seems rather inappropriate for a fiancé.”

“Young women marry old, rich men all the time, why should we be surprised when the genders are reversed? I should say that he is what my grandmother would have called a gigolo, I would put money, if you will excuse the phrase, on him being the source of the bargain basement engagement ring that the lady treasures and the son wants to rip from her finger.”

John surreptitiously watched the group for a while longer. Now that Sherlock had clarified the reasons behind their behaviour it was all so glaringly obvious. The way the woman related to the younger man was obviously that of a lover, while the older man looked as if her wanted to throttle them both. As the night wore on, the woman became even more attentive to the younger man, who smirked at his prospective stepson when he knew his fiancée wasn’t looking. When they left, she was holding his hand with an air of defiance while her son trailed sullenly behind.

 _That will end in tears._ Sherlock thought to himself before being brought back by John saying.

“That was brilliant, amazing…”

Sherlock looked down and willed himself not to blush.

“Now me. John held out his hand palm up,“you owe me a reading, like you did for Bill and Chris. What you should have told me before you got derailed by Afghanistan.”

Sherlock took the offered hand; it was cool and dry and felt very right. Despite being in a public place and not hidden behind his cabin and his Great Nostradamo persona he felt no embarrassment.

“You are going on a long journey…”

“Cut that,” John laughed, “tell me something you can’t know.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “You don’t trust easily but once you do you are unfailingly loyal; you are fundamentally traditionalist but have a rebellious streak that will occasionally come out to play. You played rugby at school and university and turn out for a senior side when duties permit, although you worry more now about getting hurt. You drink coffee when out and about but at home you prefer tea. You are not particularly close to your family and have at least one family member who has or has had an issue with alcohol, your father or a sibling or possibly both. Your own vice is gambling to the extent you don’t trust yourself even at the penny arcade. You have a girlfriend called Lucy, but you are not sure if it serious or not. Is that enough to be going on with?”

“How can you possibly know all that?”

“Your traditional values took you into medicine and the army and is reflected in the way you look and dress, and your order of apple pie and custard for dessert, your maverick tendencies are revealed in the fact the apple pie is made with cinnamon roll not pastry. You were wearing a rugby shirt when we met, not a fashion item but a team shirt from a non-league side, I would imagine with your build you would be a fly-half. You’re not close to your family in that you would rather spend the last few days before deployment with friends than with them. You’re not abstentious, you’ve had wine with our meal, but you don’t like drunkenness as I could tell in the pool hall the other night. Gambling however has its attractions, there was a wistful note in your voice when you talked about the casino. Our coffee is on its way, and the girlfriend I overheard your friends teasing you about the day we met was called Lucy.”

John pushed aside his half-eaten apple pie which Sherlock eyed greedily.

“You’re right, I’m not close to my family, what’s left of them, both my parents were what you would call heavy drinkers, but Harry’s taken that to the next level. Gambling is a weakness… I got in a bit deep when I first started work, the adrenaline rush of the tables and so on. I avoid it at all costs now. Rugby, yes, well spotted and talking of apple pie would you to finish that?”

Sherlock took the dish and asked, “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Colin Luce is our Company Sergeant Major, and a tartar, and certainly not my girlfriend.”

Sherlock groaned, “there’s always something.”

“You still haven’t explained about Afghanistan.”

Sherlock looked away, when he had been out to impress John with his insight, he had managed to keep the uneasy feeling about Afghanistan at bay, but now it was back. “I can’t tell you, not that I don’t want to, I just…”

“Ok, leave it,” John said, able to tell now what was real and what was dramatics. “Tell me about yourself. I can’t do the observational analysis but I’m pretty sure you didn’t lie awake at night in your little bed dreaming of telling fortunes on Wilvercombe promenade when you grew up.”

“No, I wanted to be a pirate,” Sherlock answer automatically.

“A pirate.” John was charmed, imagining a little curly haired boy with a cutlass and an eye patch.

Sherlock reading John’s face like a book quickly continued, “Conventional upbringing, brilliant mother, father less so but kinder, megalomaniac older brother, outlying relatives all rather eccentric. School horrendous, university not quite as bad, loose end ever since.”

“No significant other?”

“Significant what?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

Sherlock was startled, where had that line of questioning suddenly come from.

“Girlfriend… no, not really my area,.”

John subconsciously licked his lips.

“Ok, right. How about a boyfriend?”

Sherlock felt the back of his neck grow hot. _How did he explain that the sum total of his previous relationships (one) had ended in disaster and humiliation?_

“No, not at the moment.”

“Right, you’re unattached then… just like me… good.”

Sherlock was saved further embarrassment by the waiter arriving with their coffee, the moment passed and after the coffee had been poured, John’s questioning took a different route.

“So how did you end up, footloose and fancy free, in a washed-up resort like Wilvercombe?”

Sherlock filled John on his post university life including the trial of Terry Kirk, but omitting the drugs and the unhappy love affair before concluding, “I don’t have your determination to follow a direct path, mine meanders all over the place, to the concern of the parents and the bossy interference of the brother.”

“It sounds like you enjoyed the police work, not thought of joining them?”

Sherlock gave a look which told John exactly what he thought of that suggestion.

John smiled and put his hands up. “Ok, ok, not police then, but something in the field, you know jump in when the police are out of their depth.”

Sherlock conceded that he had thought about something along those lines. John took that as encouragement.

“Go for it. If you can tell a software engineer by his tie and a pilot by his thumb, you would surely be able to tell a cat burglar by his walk and a murderer by her left ear. Invaluable to the police.”

Sherlock wondered if he was being teased but John had sat back, arms folded, with the air of having settled something. 

“Shall we go?”, John turned to the waiter and indicated for the bill, which he insisted on paying, saying, “You’re still out of pocket for sending Mary Sutherland home.”

It was a warm night and there were still plenty of people about on the promenade. Sherlock realised he didn’t want the evening to end and was wondering if it would be totally gauche to suggest a walk, but John was ahead of him.

“Um… I think we may have reached the point where I would like to say your place or mine…” There was a pregnant silence and then John continued, “only I am sharing a hotel room with two hairy arsed squaddies.”

“And I have a cabin with a two-foot six bunk.”

“Not ideal.”

“No.”

John turned and looked back at the Hotel Resplendent “Not the kind of place where two men might turn up without luggage at half past ten at night and book a room, even if I could afford one.”

“Oh, I don’t know” Sherlock joined John in looking at the hotel, before swinging round and flashing his brilliant smile. “Let me have a word with the receptionist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more observant reader may notice the homage to another great detective novel running through this fic


	6. Hermione Etherege

_So much blood, everywhere, blood and heat and dust and sand. Soaking Sherlock’s shirt, while the dust blinded him, and the sand filled his mouth. So heavy, he was sinking, it must be quicksand. Quicksand on the beach?_

_Yet who would have thought the young man to have had so much blood in him?_

“Hey!”

Sherlock opened his eyes to see a pair of brilliant blue eyes looking down at him, concerned. Sherlock flicked his own eyes to the right. Nothing.

“Hey!” John repeated, “You ok? Only you were thrashing about a bit.”

Sherlock didn’t know if he was ok or not. He pulled himself into an almost sitting position and gradually the nightmare receded, to be replaced with the smooth comfort of the luxurious bed and the warmth that was radiating from the naked body beside him.

“Sorry,” he croaked, mouth dry, “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s ok.” John turned and grabbed the bottle of water from the side of the bed and handed it to Sherlock who drank deep before handing it back to John.

“What time is it?”

John took a drink from the bottle and then put it back on the side table, swapping it for his phone.

“Ten to five. Early still.”

Sherlock flopped back down on the bed. John lay back down too, close without crowding and idly ran his fingers along the firm line of Sherlock’s bicep.

“Go back to sleep now… unless you’d rather…”

Sherlock decided he would rather.

******

A little later and properly awake, John reviewed the events of the night before and the almost miraculous way in which Sherlock secured the hotel room. In the cold light of day, his suspicions were raised.

“You didn’t pay for this room, did you?”

“Not exactly.” Sherlock was cagey, but seeing that John’s interest was now piqued, realised he wasn’t going to away with stalling, “I merely advised the receptionist that the management were presently unaware that he spent his night shifts watching porn on the internet and that if he could see his way possible to furnishing me with a key card for the best double room available I would ensure that they remained that way. The fact that the only double room available was the ‘honeymoon suite’ was incidental.”

“You brilliant creature.” John was delighted, “and you knew that how?”

“His right sleeve mainly, although I didn’t expect him to cave so quickly.”

“His right sleeve,” John repeated in disbelief. “No chance of room service then?”

“My apologies.”

“Never mind, I need to get back to _The Sea View_ , we have to check out at eleven. Perhaps I will take advantage of that magnificent bathroom though.”

While John took his shower, Sherlock allowed himself to cautiously examine his dream. Under no circumstances would he countenance any suggestion that he had a ‘gift’, he simply relied on observation, deduction and the marrying of the two with cold logic. But he could not deny that his dream had conjured up his worse fears for John’s safety, the very fears that had made him say ‘don’t go to Afghanistan’ before he even knew him. The premonition was for injury, though, not death, and if there was any comfort in this to be had, then Sherlock would grab it with both hands.

John emerged from the en suite towelling his hair, “pity you can’t rustle up a suitcase, I wouldn’t mind a bathrobe like this.”

Sherlock laughed, “Remiss of me.”

“Shower’s fantastic though, you ought to try it.”

“I will.”

John started to gather his clothes in preparation for getting dressed. Sherlock watched appreciatively.

“So, what are you up to today?” John asked, as he surveyed the ruin of his clothes, glad that _the Sea View_ was only a short walk away.

“I hope to conclude my investigations into the Mary Sutherland matter, the information I requested should be arriving around now.”

“You still think that she’ll write to you.”

“Undoubtedly.”

John dressed quickly and efficiently, although not altogether comfortably, then leaned over and kissed Sherlock briefly on the lips.

“Shame, spending the day in bed with you is out of the question,” John said, pulling a rueful face and making them both laugh. “You don’t have an equivalent hold over the daytime receptionist, do you?”

Sherlock smiled, “I could investigate.”

“Don’t tempt me,” John said making his way to the door, “I won’t say goodbye, see you in a bit.”

“I’ll be there at nine.”

After John had left, Sherlock stretched out in the bed, aware of the John shaped gap that was left on one side. _Rather like the John shaped hole in my heart_ Sherlock thought, before groaning at the appalling sentimentality of the thought and getting up to take full advantage of the luxurious shower.

******

Sherlock arrived at the _Sea View_ promptly at nine o’clock to find John, now shaved and changed sitting alone in the dining room finishing his breakfast. Sherlock sat in the empty seat opposite and stared at John.

“Well,” Sherlock asked, helping himself to a Danish pastry from John’s plate.

“Well what?”

“The letter,” Sherlock huffed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t asked.”

John was tempted to tease a while longer but was in fact too curious himself so produced an envelope, unopened from his back pocket. The address was clearly typed.

Sherlock took it, picked up a clean knife from the table and slit it open. He lay the page down flat where John could see it, and then took the letter Mary Sutherland had left with him and placed it next to it. She had done exactly as Sherlock had requested and had typed ‘the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ in upper and lower case plus a set of numerals and punctuation. Sherlock resisted a satisfied gloat as he swiftly perused the two pages and their envelopes.

"You see John, it is a curious thing that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a person’s handwriting. Unless they are brand new, which is unlikely as so few are made these days, no two of them write exactly alike. Over the years some letters become more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. In the letter you received from Mary Sutherland today, we see there are four examples of the lower case ‘e’ in the text and a further five in the address and on each one the loop is shaded in. There is also a slight defect in the tail of the 'r', you can see it in the words ‘brown’, ‘over’ and ‘Wilvercombe’. There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious"

John examined the two typing on the two pieces of paper, as Sherlock continued.

“Now if we consider the letter from Miss Sutherland’s mystery lover… What do you see?”

John didn’t need to study the letter for long, it began ‘Dearest Mary’ and both the ‘e’ and the ‘r’ clearly displayed the same defect as the letters on the page typed by Mary. As he continued reading, he spotted another similarity in the blurring of the letter ‘o’ and the ‘v’ was thicker on one side than on the other.

John looked up confused. “It looks as if this letter from Ian Moody aka Mr Nobody was written on Mary’s own typewriter.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.

“That’s crazy! Did she make the whole thing up, send the letters to herself?”

“Not at all. This merely that this confirms my suspicion that the cruel hoax originated from within her own home.”

“By her mother and stepfather.”

“Not acting alone, I believe there was a someone else involved.”

“Someone else?”

“Aside from Mr and Mrs Windibanks, one other person has a great deal to lose should Mary Sutherland chose to get married. The Windibanks might lose their home and livelihood but Mrs Etherege was in danger of losing an exceptional secretary.”

“Miss Sutherland’s employer, Hermione Etherege, the romantic novelist,” John replied, the scheme becoming clearer in his head.

“The Windibanks and Mrs Etherege live and work closely to Mary Sutherland and know her intimately. They know her likes and dislikes and are supremely placed to create her ideal suitor. Mrs Etherege encourages Mary to advertise in the lonely hearts, they produce a reply that is so exactly her perfect man that even if she receives genuine replies, she will not consider them. She becomes so enamoured of this man that she willingly becomes engaged to him without ever meeting him, to the point that they are due to be married. Then fate intervenes, he does not show up, but he has not jilted her, instead he writes to her with the story of some unavoidable incident that has prevented their marriage at this time and making her swear to wait for him for eternity. Heartbroken she agrees, she will remain true, and single, working for Mrs Etheredge and with the Windibanks living off her the rest of their natural lives.”

Sherlock went on, now in full flow, “the correspondence from Ian Moody is what you would expect from a novelist of Mrs Etherege’s type so I believe it is she who drafts the suitably flowery love letters, the kind guaranteed to spark the interest of her naïve young secretary. She sends them round to Mrs Windibank, probably by one of her staff. You read in that article she had difficulty in keeping staff, which means that she has employees aside from Mary Sutherland. Mary’s mother was a secretary when she married Thomas Sutherland, and in fact she taught her daughter the skill, it would be simple for her to type up what Mrs Etherege had written.”

“But wouldn’t Mary wonder what her mother was doing at her typewriter?”

“How would she know? Mary described her day, every afternoon at four-thirty she takes the manuscript she has typed earlier to Mrs Etherege’s for correction. That gives Mrs Windibank the best part of an hour to type the letter and envelope. The next day, James Windibank goes out to wherever the PO Box is situated, posts the letter and collects those that Mary has sent to her phantom lover. He hands Mary’s letters to Mrs Etherege so she can frame a reply. Mary’s eyesight is bad, she’s unlikely to notice the similarities between the typeface, and even if she did, she would most likely take this as another indication of the total compatibility between herself and Ian Moody. The whole thing is well executed and thoroughly unpleasant.”

Sherlock ended with a flourish and took another pastry from John’s plate.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“You must do something,” John protested, outraged at the treatment of the young woman.

“Unfortunately, I think there is nothing to be gained by intervention. I doubt very much that Miss Sutherland will thank me for it, and to learn that her mother, stepfather and employer had colluded in this manner would destroy what little home life she already possesses.”

“Then she is to remain bound to this fictitious romance for the rest of her life?”

Sherlock disagreed. “No more than the next ten years I would have thought.”

John was not satisfied. “There must be something you can do; you can’t let them get away with it.”

“They haven’t committed a crime… but if you insist, I will go to London this afternoon and see Miss Sutherland and try to persuade her that she has been tricked, without revealing the perpetrators. I have promised to return her letter to her, I can use that as a reason for calling.”

John seemed to think this was the best plan. “I’m London bound myself, I’m staying a couple of nights with Chris’s Mum in Camden, before reporting to barracks on Sunday evening.”

“Perhaps you might be able to join me. Shall we say six o’clock, 31 Lyon Place?”

John was just giving his assent when they were interrupted by the boisterous sound of Bill arriving in the dining room, closely followed by Chris. They both looked rather worse for wear and Bill was singing, tunelessly, an old musical hall song “who were you with last night…”

“Shut it!” John said sharply but Bill went on.

“Catterick, Freetown, Seria and now Wilvercombe. Three Continents Watson strikes again!”

“Shut up!” John said again, more forcefully. Bill ignored him.

“Never known to pass an opportunity to get his end away, that’s our Johnny.”

John recognising that an ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ strategy was best at this point started speculating just how much Bill had lost at the tables the previous night and became so intensely involved in the banter that he didn’t even notice that Sherlock had slipped away.


	7. The Windibanks and The Taylors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Journeys end in lovers' meeting"

31 Lyon Place was an attractive three storey town house, and while it was not as large as some of the houses in the row, John could easily imagine that it was worth every penny of the one million it had been valued at for probate. He was just beginning to wonder if he had been sent on a fool’s errand when a cab pulled up and Sherlock got out of it, sharply dressed as the night before, John felt his heart do a little flip. _Gorgeous, damn!_

Sherlock greeted him formally, and while John did not go in for public displays of affection, he couldn’t help being disappointed with the “Good Evening, Doctor, shall we proceed?”

Sherlock went up the three steps to the front door, with John just behind him, and rang the bell. After a couple of minutes, he rang the bell again, without response. Just as John was about to speculate as to the family’s absence or whether it was worth ringing the bell a third time, the door opened.

It revealed a sturdy, middle-sized man around thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner.

“Mr Windibank, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague Dr John Watson. We were recently able to render a service to your stepdaughter and we are here to return some property that she left with us.”

Mr Windibank held out his hand. “You may give it to me.”

Sherlock adopted a sorrowful expression, “I am sorry, the item is most precious, and I promised to deliver it into her hand.”

Mr Windibank was immutable, Sherlock more so. Just as it looked as if the discussion was going to deteriorate into one of those tedious debates where neither party will concede anything, a voice from within the house called out.

“Who is it James?” and Mary’s mother appeared behind her husband.

“Two persons to see Mary.”

Mrs Windibank was a shrewd woman and quickly appraised the situation. “Well don’t leave them on the doorstep, invite them in. I am sure they would be pleased to see Mary and how well and happy she is looking after her little adventure.”

She turned and went back into the house, while Mr Windibank stepped aside to allow Sherlock and John through. As they did so John raised a questioning eyebrow to which Sherlock replied with a shrug. _Well and happy?_

They were shown into a stuffy little parlour which Sherlock judged as being unchanged since the Aunt’s time while Mrs Windibank fetched her daughter. John noted they were offered neither a seat nor tea. Miss Sutherland arrived, having obviously run down the stairs, and greeted them both enthusiastically.

“Oh! Dr Watson! and Mr Holmes… I did not recognise you there at first.”

“I might say the same of you, Miss Sutherland.” John spoke the truth, when had last seen the young woman, as he put her into a taxi for Wilvercombe station, she had been in a very sorry state, bedraggled, tearstained and heartbroken. Now she was rosy cheeked and smiling, radiating happiness.

“I am elated, Dr Watson, all is well. This morning I received a letter from Ian, explaining everything, he loves me still.”

 _Clever_ Sherlock thought _very clever._ He held out his hand “May I see it?”

Mary took the letter from inside her blouse, her romantic tendencies had resulted in her keeping the letter close to her heart and when she handed it to Sherlock it was warm which he found rather distasteful. The letter was brief, explaining that he (Ian) had been called away on a secret mission, and asking that Mary swear on her father’s grave that she would be true to him forever.

Sherlock thought again what a smart move this had been, before passing the letter to John. The doctor’s face took on a grim expression which Sherlock was beginning to associate with a determination to ‘do the right thing’.

“Miss Sutherland,” John began, “Mr Holmes has looked into the disappearance of your fiancé Ian Moody and come to a different conclusion. Perhaps you had better sit down.”

While Mary and John sat down, Sherlock remained standing, leaning slightly against the mantlepiece and listening as John, without mentioning any names, carefully outlined the scale of the deception that had been played upon her.

As John spoke, Mary’s emotions, as displayed by her general demeanour and posture, ranged from incredulity, to sorrow, to anger and back to disbelief.

“Why would anyone do such a wicked thing?”

“Because they could” Sherlock replied simply “Because they get their kicks out of exercising power over unsuspecting victims.”

“But Ian wasn’t cruel, he was wonderfully kind, he wrote such lovely things.”

“Miss Sutherland,” John explained, “If he had been anything other, would you have continued the correspondence?”

“But he seemed to know everything about me.”

“Perhaps you gave away more than you realised in your letters to him,” John answered.

Sherlock who was beginning to grow impatient, wanted to wrap the whole thing up.

“I am afraid Miss Sutherland, you must acknowledge the whole thing was a fraud, and forget that a person called Ian B Moody ever entered your life.”

"You are very persuasive, Mr Holmes, but I cannot do that. I don’t believe that anyone could do such a wicked and cruel thing to another person. Ian is real; I have his photograph.”

“You have his photograph!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Of course, I have a photograph, it was one of the first things I asked for. It is upstairs under my pillow; I’ll fetch it now.”

She left the room for a few minutes and presently returned with a small picture in a silver frame. Sherlock glanced at it before handing it to John who examined it more closely, even moving to the window to see it in better light.

“I can’t be sure, but it looks like… Brad Pitt.”

Mary and Sherlock chorused, “Who?”

John despaired, “You know… _Troy… Ocean’s Eleven… Mr and Mrs Smith_ ” but was met with nothing with blank looks.

“He’s really quite a famous actor, married Jennifer Aniston.”

“Married?” Mary exclaimed, “you are saying that Ian is an actor and married!”

“No Miss Sutherland, what I am saying is the hoaxer sent you a picture of a handsome American actor called Brad Pitt. I’m sorry, this is further proof that Ian does not exist.” John’s voice was firm but kind, and it was perhaps this, rather than Sherlock’s more dictatorial tone that finally convinced Mary of the truth.

She burst into tears.

They left her to cry herself out. John offered his handkerchief, but Mary found one of her own. Finally, she wiped her eyes and wailed, “I have been such a fool,” before sobbing for a little while longer.

When the tears had finally abated, John said in what Sherlock was beginning to recognise as his ‘doctoring’ voice. “Miss Sutherland, I am staying for a couple of nights with a friend and his mother and I have arranged to meet them for something to eat at a pub around the corner, perhaps you would like to join us?”

Mary Sutherland shook her head. John looked at Sherlock who picked up the cue, “you’ve had a disappointment; do you really want to spend the evening alone with your thoughts? You have longed for the company of young people; you would enjoy an outing I believe. Why don’t you go and wash your face and get changed? We’ll wait for you here.”

“But what will mother and Mr Windibank say?”

“Don’t worry about them, go and get ready,” Sherlock said with conviction.

As soon as Mary was out of earshot Mr and Mrs Windibank entered the room, obviously spoiling for a fight. Sherlock was on them before they could speak.

“Mary will do as she pleases. One word of opposition and I will not hesitate to inform her of the cruel, selfish and heartless trick you have played on her.”

James Windibank looked at Sherlock and John with a cold sneer upon his pale face. “It was a joke that’s all, an ‘armless joke, we never thought she would get so caught up in it.”

“A joke you say, perhaps you would care to confess to it when Mary returns… I thought not. It isn’t so funny when your dupe has someone to stand up for her.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong, it isn’t a crime,” Mrs Windibank protested.

“It may not have broken the law,” Sherlock spat out the words, “but it was a crime against every common decency and parental responsibility, and you will pay for it, of that I am sure.”

When Mary returned, she had let down her hair, and was wearing summer dress in a delicate shade of mauve, Sherlock approved of the colour and thought it suited her well. Taking Mary by the arm he led her out of the room, with John behind them.

“We’re off out now,” he called to the Windibanks. “Don’t wait up.”

******

Once they reached the corner of Lyon Place where Sherlock stopped and addressed John and Mary, “I’m sorry Miss Sutherland, Dr Watson but here I am afraid I must leave you.”

“What?” John exclaimed immediately, his face was all regret.

“No Mr Holmes,” Mary entreated, “you must come with us; I still have to repay you for kindness, I have money for you but thought I might pay for your meal too.”

“The last train to Wilvercombe is at eight, and I must be on it.”

“If this is about having somewhere to stay the night, I’m sure Chris’s mum would put you up, she has the most enormous house that’s always full of waifs and strays,” John said, then added quietly, “and we still need to talk.”

“That’s settled,” Mary said firmly, exercising her newly discovered autonomy, and heading off in the direction of the pub.

******

Chris Taylor and his mother were already seated at a table in the pub’s dining area. John introduced Mary and Sherlock and explained the situation. Mrs Taylor insisted they call her Ruth and said that Sherlock was welcome to stay the night. Chris, Sherlock already knew, and noted he looked happier away from the company of Bill Murray; he did a quick inspection of Ruth and wondered how this elegant widow in her late fifties could afford to live in a large house in Fitzrovia on such a modest income until he deduced her occupation. _Vicar. Ah!_

Ruth Taylor was an excellent addition to the party, with a surprisingly wicked sense of humour, and the ability to gently engage everyone in conversation including the somewhat overwhelmed Mary Sutherland and the morose Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock toyed with his fish and chips (good, but not a patch on the chippy in Wilvercombe) and listened to Ruth and Mary, they seemed to be discussing someone called Brad Pitt. Sherlock vaguely remembered hearing that name recently but decided he was unlikely to learn anything useful so had begun to tune out when he caught Ruth saying.

“You never go to the cinema… oh but Mary, you’d love it. My friend Penny and I go almost every Thursday you must come with us. Let me give you my card.” She rummaged in her purse, “I had these printed when I moved here, and hardly ever give them out.”

Chris, who had been mostly silent during this, concentrating on his lasagne suddenly turned to Sherlock and exclaimed. “I’ve got it… I know who you are, you’re the _Great Nostradamo_ , the fortune teller from Wilvercombe.” He turned to his mother apologetically, “I’m sorry I know you don’t like that kind of thing.”

Sherlock was disconcerted, it was fine to masquerade as a clairvoyant to strangers in a strange town but to be exposed as such amongst people in a social setting and in the city he loved, made him feel cheap.

“I don’t claim to have any supernatural gift,” he said stiffly.

“Only outstanding observational skills, an excellent memory and the ability to combine the two to make an accurate deduction,” John finished for him.

Sherlock could tell Ruth was intrigued but she tactfully said nothing, her son however had no reservations. “Go on see what you make of Mum”

“Leave him alone, Christopher. He’s a human being not a performing seal.”

“Thank you Ruth.” Sherlock acknowledged her intervention, “I see your careers in nursing, and subsequently in ordained ministry have given you a high level of people skills, and your success in what is still ostensibly a man’s world has enhanced your natural authority… damn!”

They all laughed.

“Very clever, you do indeed have a gift.”

“Although you disapprove of fortune telling.”

“I disapprove of anything that exploits people or can be used to damage them in any way. You may not have a gift of second sight, but you obviously see things that most people overlook.”

There was a heavy silence then until Sherlock took the opportunity to change the subject “You might be interested to know, Chris, that Mary is the daughter of Thomas Sutherland, of Sutherland & Co, on the Tottenham Court Road.”

“Wow, your father owned Sutherland & Co? Wow, that’s amazing!” Chris exclaimed but appeared to be overcome with awe as he only managed another quiet ‘wow’ after that.

His mother took over while he recovered, “Chris would have lived in your father’s bookshop if we’d let him. It was his favourite place right from the time he was little. I loved it too; it hasn’t been the same since it changed hands. I’m sorry for your loss, Mary.”

Chris recovered enough to say “I spoke to your father once, in the shop. He was very kind to me; I can’t believe I’m having a drink with his daughter.”

Chris and Mary proceeded to engage in an animated conversation regarding old books and bindings, while Ruth talked to John about his holiday and mutual acquaintances and Sherlock looked on, until she suddenly glanced at her watch and said.

“I’m afraid I must leave you young people to it. No don’t think you have to come with me, it’s only just gone nine. I have two weddings one after the other tomorrow and I really need to check the paperwork is in the right order, I live in dread that one day someone will go home with the wrong bride.”

After Ruth left, they ordered coffee and Chris and John started to entertain Mary with stories of life in the RAMC, while Sherlock sat back and listened, letting the words flow over him, half in the room and half deep within himself in what he like to think of as his mind palace. He reviewed every incident since he had encountered John, was it really only four days ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

Eventually, John stifled a yawn, he’d not had much sleep the night before, and Mary said she really thought she must be going.

Sherlock suggested that Chris escort Mary the short distance home, while he and John waited for him on a bench outside the pub. Chris and Mary agreed to this eagerly and they headed off.

“For someone who was swearing undying devotion four hours ago she has made a very quick recovery,” John observed after they had gone. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

“The possibility occurred to me; I knew that Sutherland & Co on the Tottenham Court Road was a literary landmark. What I deduced about Chris was that he is quite a simple old-fashioned boy, mad about books, who, as he grew up around London, would be bound to know the establishment. Whereas Mary is an old-fashioned girl who just wants to settle down with a nice boy she can relate to. They’ll write to each other while he’s way and if anything comes of it, then all well and good, and if the Windibanks try to interfere, then Ruth Taylor will be more than a match for them.”

John seemed satisfied with the answer, “well played, anyway.” He was quiet for a moment then said, “I’m sorry about Bill, earlier… this morning… he’s such an arse”

“He didn’t say anything I didn’t know already.”

“Of course not… but no one wants to think they’re just another pin in a map.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Not even a little.”

Sherlock gave a small smile, “maybe a little.”

“I thought it might have put you off.”

“It didn’t put me off, but it did put me in my place.”

“There hasn’t been anything like the quantity Bill made out…” John’s face took on the determined expression again and Sherlock wondered what was coming next. “I just wanted to say that if you turn out to be the last one, then I’m glad it was you.”

“What do you mean… the last one?”

John turned his head away and said in the most matter of fact way, “I don’t come back from Afghanistan, do I?”

“What?”

“That’s what you saw, wasn’t it, when I walked into your booth and you told me not to go to Afghanistan. You knew if I went, I wouldn’t come back.”

Sherlock was horrified “John, I told you I am not clairvoyant, I don’t see anything that isn’t there.” 

John smiled at him, sadly, “I’ve watched you Sherlock, with Mary Sutherland, Ruth, with the people in the restaurant, even with me. Everything you deduce is measured and orderly, ‘I know this because of this’ you’ll say, ‘your clothes tell me this about your upbringing, your hair reveals this about your work’. You don’t throw random prophesies like hand grenades and step back and watch the explosion.

“I saw what you didn’t, Sherlock, that afternoon in Wilvercombe… I saw the look on your face; the same look that was there when you woke up this morning. Pure terror.”

It struck Sherlock that he had mere seconds to save a life. If John went to Afghanistan believing that his death was inevitable then without doubt… he would die. All his natural traits would be magnified, he would be fearless, heroic and ultimately reckless; he would win medals and he would lose his life. Sherlock could not allow that to happen, but the only way to stop it was sacrifice his dignity.

“If I looked terrified it was because of the strength of my feelings… the moment we met I knew I never wanted you to go anywhere without me at your side.”

“Seriously?” John sounded sceptical but Sherlock noticed he preened a little “Love at first sight and all that?”

“Seriously.”

Sherlock waited for the blow, for John to recognise the words from Ian Moody’s letter, but it never came. “That’s good, more than good in fact, because pretty much, I feel the same.”

Sherlock could almost see the weight falling from John’s shoulders. “I really thought you knew I bought it this campaign.”

“No, you’ll come back… to me”

John grinned and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief; the danger had passed.

“Will you stay until Sunday, see me off at the station, like a proper forces’ sweetheart?”

“I’ve some clothes at my brothers, it’s a nuisance but I can go and get them.”

“That a yes then?”

“If I must.”

******

Four o’clock on Sunday afternoon saw a small party gather at Euston station to see John, Chris and Bill off to join their regiment. Sherlock who hated crowds, farewells and any kind of sentiment (although he now supposed he must make an exception in John’s case) longed for the whole performance to be over. The delight of seeing John in his uniform, neat as a new pin was already fading. He was beginning to experience the first pangs of missing John and if he was going to have to learn how to live with someone’s absence, he was impatient for the lesson to start.

After the three soldiers had finally gone through the barrier, Ruth linked her arm through Sherlock’s as Mary and Bill’s girlfriend Laura went on ahead towards the underground.

“Welcome to the world of army wives and parents. You never really get used to it. It is at times like this when I wonder if it might be better to know the future, instead of the constant wondering and worrying, but on the whole I think that would be worse” She stopped still, and as Sherlock was still attached, he did too.

“What did you really see?” Ruth asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I had a long talk with John, yesterday morning when you had gone to your brother’s. He told me of your first encounter, he was rather blown away that he’d made such an impact, but some how it didn’t ring true. I know the kind of man you are, all science and reason and cold hard logic, not passion and impulse and love at first sight. But something spooked you didn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fortune telling.”

“I said I don’t agree with it, but if there is one thing that twenty years as a nurse and twelve as a priest have taught me it is that, to quote Hamlet, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Sherlock turned to face Ruth.

“I saw the blood and dust and sand, I could even smell the cordite in the air… I saw him hurt… bleeding out under an Afghan sky… before I’d had a chance to deduce the slightest thing about him. But I couldn’t tell him that, so instead I told him I loved him.”

“You did the right thing, whether you meant to or not you will have given John the psychological strength to cling to life where other men would die.”

She squeezed his arm, “You’ll see your John again, you’ll be together, I know it.”

Sherlock laughed, “So it is you now that has the gift of prophesy?”

“No,” Ruth smiled at him, “I have the gift of faith.”


End file.
